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were spoken, and the monks carrying the litter slowed. Another word and they stopped in front of MacLeod, setting
     the litter upon the ground. The people around him gasped as the monks quickly moved to help the person inside disembark.
    MacLeod was not sure what he expected, but he was surprised as a young man, certainly no more than twenty-five and dressed
     no differently than the monks around him, emerged from within the bright cloth. He waved any assistance away and sprang swiftly
     to the roadway. Then, dark eyes twinkling in his smooth, unremarkable face, he looked up at the tall stranger on a horse and
     smiled. With that smile, the young man’s face filled with radiance. Duncan suddenly knew that here was something more than
     bishop or local prince, as he had assumed. Here was someone quite unique, someone truly holy. Duncan quickly dismounted and
     bowed.
    The young man walked toward him, blessing the people as he passed with his smile and his touch. When he reached MacLeod he
     stopped and spoke, but too rapidly for Duncan to catch more than a word or two. He shrugged and shook his head. The young
     man understood the gesture and began again, speaking slowly and carefully.
    “Please tell me who you are,” he said.
    “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Duncan answered.
    “Your name is as strange to me as your face. But not too strange. Are you also a missionary, as the others of your kind who
     live in my city?”
    Duncan was startled to hear the Western word on the other man’s tongue. “Missionary?” he repeated.
    “It is their word. Jesuit and Capuchin also. But no, I do not think you are as these men.” The young man stopped and cocked
     his head to one side, looking deeply into MacLeod’s eyes. In a strange sensation, Duncan felt as if his soul were suddenly
     laid bare and being read.
    “You carry a great burden, I think,” the young man continued after a moment. “You must come to Lhasa, to the Potala and live
     among my household. We have something to teach each other, I think.”
    Duncan bowed again, acknowledging the young man’s words and his invitation. But Duncan was not certain he had understood correctly;
     what could he, whose knowledge was of swords and warfare, of how to stay alive in the Game, possibly teach such a person?
    The young man turned away and was walking back to his litter, obviously expecting MacLeod to follow. Before Duncan remounted
     his horse, he turned and spoke softly to the Tibetan native nearest him.
    “Tell me this young man’s name so that I may address him correctly,” he said as quickly as his limited language would allow.
     All those who heard his words turned and looked at him in wonder. How could anyone not
know
, their faces seemed to say.
    “That is Jam-dpal Rgya-mtsho,” one of them answered. “His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”
    The Dalai Lama, the Ocean of Wisdom
—Duncan had heard that title spoken with reverence among his nomad friends. The Dalai Lama was both temporal and spiritual
     leader of this land, the Priest-King, an “Enlightened One” who embodied the Path of Peace.
    Well, peace—peace of mind, peace in his soul—was what Duncan MacLeod needed right now. He remounted his horse and, gathering
     up the reins of the pony who carried his possessions, slowly guided them to the back of the procession.

Chapter Five

    Duncan rode behind the procession for eight more miles. Everywhere the crowd stared at him as he passed, the great white stranger
     towering over the litter of their Holy One. Some even drew back in fear. It did not take long before MacLeod was wishing for
     some other means of travel, some form of anonymity. But despite the number of people he saw, not once did he feel the presence
     of another Immortal.
Perhaps
, he told himself as he sat a little straighter in his saddle and tried in vain to ignore the staring eyes,
that is anonymity enough
.
    Finally, another crest in the road, and Lhasa, the holy city, capital